I Did It For Science: Female Wrestling

To investigate the pleasure derived from being tossed around like a rag doll by a hot and incredibly strong woman.

State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Guys who get beaten up say this to regain some dignity after chickening out of a brawl. Well, as it turns out, some people like their fightin’ supplemented by a little lovin’ — namely, guys who hire female wrestlers to kick their asses. The last girl I grappled with was my younger sister when we were kids (incidentally, it ended up in a tie, regardless of what she might tell you), so I have a feeling I’m headed for a fall, but I’m looking for a vestige of honor in defeat.

Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

Unitard (1) Athletic supporter (1) Highly trained Amazon woman (1)

In this portion of your report, you must describe, step-by-step, what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

I visited the rather unassuming premises of Tempest Wrestling, unsure of what to expect. Of this I was certain: I was going to wrestle Maxine, who in addition to having several inches and thirty pounds on me, has three years experience with ju-jitsu and Gracie-style grappling under her (presumably black) belt. The very friendly Lisa, Tempest’s head honcho, greeted me at the door and told me to make myself comfortable while my opponent readied herself for the biggest sporting mismatch of all time. Minutes later, Maxine appeared and gave me a handshake befitting someone primed to bend my limbs and spine in ways Mother Nature couldn’t conceive, much less intend. We had a brief chat about what was and wasn’t acceptable on the mat: “No eye-gouging or punching,” she explained. “Other than that . . . bring it on!”

Maxine and Lisa told me about the different types of men who frequent Tempest, from submissive guys who want their head sat on for an hour to wrestling coaches looking for some stiff female competition. Some guys sport giant boners during the matches; others ask to kiss their combatants. “I tell them that they can fight me for a kiss,” Maxine told me. “It’s better than saying no flat-out.” Some people like to role-play that they’re being bullied by a female boss. “They have it all worked out in their heads,” says Lisa. “They’ve been planning these situations for months.” Certain customers are especially aggressive. “One huge guy came barreling through the door, fists flying, ready to brawl,” recalled Maxine. “I was like ‘Let’s go!'”

Maxine sent me to the changing room to suit up. For the first time in my life, I put on a jockstrap and squeezed myself into spandex: a royal-blue wrestling unitard with white piping, the least flattering thing I’ve ever worn. (A look in the mirror caused me to wonder if my nipples were in the standard location — they were exposed on either side of the shoulder straps.) With the athletic supporter in place, I looked as if I was trying to smuggle a medium-sized marsupial into the ring. As I strutted out to the mat, trying to look fierce, Maxine let out a mocking chuckle. She wore a black bikini top,track pants and a snarky look. She told me that some of her regular clients establish a safe word, so they can plead for mercy without terminating the “fun.” Having recently heard a painful story of a German S&Mer who forgot his safe word and ended up in the krankenhaus, I suggested that the involuntary exclamation of “Oh Christ!” would suffice.

Quantify the effects of the experiment.

Maxine and I faced off on the mat. She asked if I was ready. As I began to nod, I felt her strong arms snap around me, inflicting enormous pressure on my rib cage. With a deft, sweeping motion, Maxine sent me to the mat and jumped on me, pinning all four of my limbs while keeping a hand free to flick the tip of my nose. It seemed that she was trying to break my spirit as well as my bones. We bared our teeth at each other. She was grinning, and I grimaced while my skin turned claret. Lisa shouted encouraging words and instructions to her flagship wrestler, which seemed a tad redundant. Trying to say anything with the air being forced out of you is a struggle, but I managed to wheeze, “Oh, Christ!” four times in rapid succession while slapping my partially free hand on the mat like some kind of manic beaver.

“Okay,” I blurted after forty-five seconds of continuous action/humiliation. “Care to tell me where I’m going wrong?” Maxine suggested that my signature move — flailing around as if in the midst of a fit — was giving her too much to work with. She suggested that I be more compact, almost shrimp-like, saving my energy for explosive counterattacks.

With each grapple (there were about six in a one-hour session), I seemed to improve, and for about five seconds I thought I had the upper hand. Maxine categorized me as a squirmy, slippery type of wrestler. I think she intended that to be a compliment. Any fleeting success I managed was eclipsed by taunts and torment from my opponent. I never wrestled in high school, but I’m pretty sure that pinning your opponent and giving him a Wet Willie while slapping his arse wasn’t encouraged. Likewise, J.V. wrestling doesn’t typically involve having your face smushed into an Amazon’s boobs or having an intimate encounter with her crotch.

Acutely aware of how silly I looked, I was too self-conscious to feel turned on at all. Remember that Saturday Night Live skit where Wayne and Garth are in Madonna’s apartment, riffing on her “Vogue” video? I looked like Garth, wearing the catsuit with the exaggerated bulge in front. That said, it was interesting to be so close to a woman who wasn’t my girlfriend. She smelled good, too. But the humiliation aspect didn’t really do it for me. I think it happens too often in reality; I don’t need to replicate the feeling. I mean, high-powered execs allow dominatrices to dress them up in diapers because that would never happen in real life. But being mauled and/or humiliated by a woman is a very real danger in my day-to-day routine. I mean, it’s happened before.

As Maxine was putting me in holds while smiling for Debbie’s camera, I got the feeling that she was holding back a bit. At one point, she hoisted me over her shoulder, called me a “little muppet” and spanked my bum while posing for a picture. After a particularly well-fought bout in which she body-slammed me and crushed my midsection between her powerful thighs, I decided I couldn’t take anymore. I was well and truly worked-over. I’m not in terrible shape — I can run several miles with no problem — but six, two-minute grappling sessions with Maxine left me beet-red and panting like a dog in heat. Forty-eight hours later, the aching is only beginning to subside.

Summarize your findings. Don’t forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.

I don’t have to look outside Nerve HQ to find a woman who could kick my arse. Lorelei, for one, has entertained the thought on occasion, I’m sure. Wrestling a Tempest girl is the most physically intimate you can get while still keeping things PG; it’s one of those activities where the pleasure has to come from inside your head. But the women of Tempest will happily turn you into a human pretzel, regardless of what kinky scenario is playing in your mind.

Tempest is looking for beautiful, strong athletic females. If you think you’ve got what it takes and you want to make great money while kicking ass, call Lisa at (212) 946-5099 or email tempestwrestling@aol.com.